Life is so %&#*ing good, I can taste it in my spit. ~ XXXX, Layer Cake
Being a non-Swede in Sweden, and being asked to make gravlax, is a bit like being a non-Catholic in Italy, who has just been asked by the pope to perform communion. So for two days I sat on pins and needles as my gravlax cured in the refrigerator, hoping and praying that it would turn out well and that my experimentation with raw fish wouldn’t kill anyone. At the end of the two days, I removed the salmon from the fridge and unwrapped it. It smelled good, really good. I began to slice long, thin, pink strips but before I could even put them on a platter for the morning breakfast spread, it was snatched from my cutting board. I waited with baited breath… “Mmmmmm”, The Swedes said. “Mmmmmm”, is always good to hear. I was told it was the best they’d ever had! And since gravlax is, like, the national food of Sweden – I’ll wear that one like a badge of honor. Thank you! I laid out of a big platter of my homemade lox alongside thin slices of cucumber and tomatoes, a basket of fresh bread, hard-boiled eggs and cheese and I am proud to announce that I have been unofficially crowned an honorary Swede. And nobody died from eating my raw fish. Yay!
(Since the salmon is not cooked, use the freshest possible salmon. Fortunately for me, fresh salmon is not in short supply here in Sweden!)
In a small bowl combine salt and sugar. Rinse and pat salmon dry and lay on cutting board, flesh side up. Slice salmon in half widthwise. Sprinkle salmon halves with dill seeds and then coat both halves of salmon heavily with salt mixture. Layer fresh herbs on one side of the salmon, starting with the basil and then the dill. Sandwich both pieces of salmon together with herbs in between. Sprinkle any remaining salt mixture on salmon skin and around exposed flesh. Wrap tightly with plastic wrap. Place salmon sandwich in glass baking dish and place a plate or baking dish on top of it. Weigh the plate down with either two large cans of tomatoes, a few bricks or free-weights between 2 and 4 pounds and place in refrigerator. Flip the salmon over every 12-hours and replace the weights. The salmon will be ready to eat after 48 hours, but can cure for up to a week. The longer the salmon cures, the texture will become more dense and drier. I usually cure my salmon for 2 to 3 days.
Remove the gravlax from the fridge, unwrap and remove the herbs. The rule of thumb with knives is: the thinner the blade, the thinner the slice. When it comes to slicing gravlax, the best knife to use is a long, thin slicer. Make long thin slices at about a 45 degree angle, against the grain of the flesh. If you’re in New York, pile it on a bagel with cream cheese, red onion and capers. But, if you want to enjoy it the Scandinavian way, eat it with cucumbers and tomatoes and fresh brown bread with butter!
There are a few things that have taken me by surprise in my study of Sweden’s culinary landscape. First: the candy. Every grocery store that I’ve visited has an isle of bulk candy bins that would put Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory to shame. The biggest grocery store, ICA MAX Stormarknad (say that 10 times fast!), must have over 100 bins of candy. The bins contain every flavor and shape of gummy candy – from sweet and sour fruit chews (or winegums, as they’re called here), salted licorice, Swedish fish and coke bottles (coke flavored winegums shaped like bottles) and so on. And, all manner of chocolate: nuts, caramels, chocolate coated marshmallow bears, chocolate coated gummy candies, chocolate drops, hey stacks, etc. Add to that, another smaller isle of “premium” candy bins where premium chocolates come wrapped in pretty jeweled colored foils that remind me of some long lost childhood I never had! It’s a wonder Sweden doesn’t suffer from a national toothache or a severe case of hyperactivity. But maybe that’s why Swedes so often go to Thailand (a nation known for its inexpensive dental care) in the wintertime, to get all of their cavities filled!
Next: ice cream. While I haven’t yet noticed a frozen yogurt epidemic on the same scale as that which is sweeping the United States at the moment, Swedes certainly do love their frozen treats. Store bought ice creams in Sweden come in flavors normally limited to high-end restaurants in the States – rhubarb with cardamom and cinnamon, nougat, lemon-mint sorbet, cactus fruit. And their ice creams are ethereally light and yet still incredibly creamy – a texture I’ve only ever experienced before with ice cream made from a PacoJet. But, my research is not yet complete. I think the Swedish ice cream phenomenon will require more a bit more field-testing.
And finally, the bread and butter. Seriously, what country steals all the thunder for having the best bread? France, no? Baguette, baguette, baguette. You’d think that baguette was the only decent bread available in all of Europe. Well, to hell with the baguette, I say, and to hell with the French, for that matter! The best breads I’ve ever eaten have been in Norway and now, Sweden. Dense, dark, chewy whole grain breads flecked with caraway, flax and sunflower seeds, spiced syrup breads and breads loaded with dried fruits and nuts. Spread with creamy, rich salted or extra-salted butter – it’s like a bite of heaven!
A new addiction, or three, has been born in me. Needless to say, I will not be able to fit into my pants by the end of this trip. Good thing there’s an H&M on every street corner!
I’ve tried sitting still. It really doesn’t work for me. I don’t even know why I fight it anymore. My feet start to itch when I get too comfortable. Then, this insatiable case of wanderlust kicks in and I have to hit the road, or the sky, or the ocean. That’s what happened a few months back, right after I started my new (and already defunct DharmaKitchen) blog with a grand announcement that I was going to stay put and start writing about healthy cooking. I went six months without getting on an airplane! That’s a record for me!
My friend, Tom, says Lady Fortuna loves it when we make “grand” announcements. HA! I have to agree…
I was actually trying really, really hard to stay in one place, in Oregon. I thought I could keep my wanderlust at bay. I’ve tried this before. It never works. I have to be able to run free, to take off, to be somewhere new: to smell the smells, hear the sounds (even cars sound different in a foreign country!), peruse the isles of the grocery stores and take in all the wonderful, weird goodies people eat in these strange, exotic places. It’s like an addiction, almost as expensive, but without the side effects (except weight-gain and the occasional sting of loneliness). It’s part of the fabric of my being. Best not to fight it.
And so that’s how it happened. How I ended up where I am now: on an island, in Stockholm, Sweden where I’ll be cooking for a family for the next six weeks!
It’s 3:30am right now. From where I sit, I can see a pale blue sky, tinged with pink as the sun works it’s way up. Birds are chirping.
(This picture was taken at 10:30pm, about as dark as it gets in Sweden. By 3am, the sun is up again!)
Sun, you are really messing with my head! My body keeps telling me that it’s 3am and I need to get some sleep. But my body thinks it’s breakfast time and is craving coffee and a bullar, the Swedish cardamom buns that my new employer taught me how to make last week. They’re made from a sweat, yeasted dough that is smeared with butter, sprinkled with sugar and cardamom (or cinnamon, or pistachio paste, or fruit – but cardamom is my favorite), cut into strips, twisted, rolled and sprinkled with parlsocker (pronounced: pearl-soaker or pearled sugar) and then baked. They’re soft and chewy, sweetly spiced, with a little crunch from the pearled sugar. And nothing, and I mean NOTHING, is better than one of those hot from the oven with a cup of tea!
Bullers: Swedish Cardamom Buns
Total time: About 1 hour, plus rising time for the dough
Servings: Makes 2 dozen rolls
Dough:
3/4 cup milk
1 tablespoon active-dry yeast
3 1/4 cups (13.8 ounces) flour, divided, plus additional for kneading
2 1/2 Tablespoons sugar
1/4 cup butter
1 egg, at room temperature
1 teaspoon salt
Filling:
Cupcake liners (about 20)
3 tablespoons softened butter
1/3 cup sugar
1 Tablespoon cardamom or cinnamon
1 Egg, beaten
Parlsocker (pearl sugar)
Put butter and milk in a small pot and warm until butter is melted. Cool until just barely warm. In a large bowl, or in the bowl of a stand mixer, combine the warm milk, yeast and one-half cup flour, stirring to dissolve. Set aside just until the yeast is activated (the mixture will begin to bubble), 5 to 10 minutes.
While the yeast is activating, combine the remaining flour and sugar in a separate bowl.
With a fork (if working by hand), or using a mixer fitted with a dough hook, work half of the flour/sugar mixture into the activated yeast, then add the egg until combined. Slowly add in the remaining flour/sugar mixture (the mixture will at first be stringy, then very sticky as the flour is absorbed). Stir in the salt.
With mixer running, slowly add only as much flour as needed just to keep the dough from sticking to the sides. Mix for 5 minutes. The finished dough should be smooth, tender, soft and slightly tacky.
Remove bowl from mixer. Cover with a towel and place in a warm, draft, free environment and allow to rise until dough is almost doubled in volume.
Heat the oven to 400 degrees. On a well-floured surface, roll the dough into a rectangle, 1/4 inch thick, measuring (roughly) 24 inches by 10 inches.
In a small bowl, combine the remaining one-third cup sugar with the cardamom.
Smear the dough with the softened butter, then sprinkle over the cardamom sugar mixture.
Roll the rectangle lengthwise into a tight tube (as when rolling cinnamon rolls). Cut the tube into 24 (1-inch) slices, using thread if possible (the thread will slice more easily and cleanly than a knife). Roll the tube one-quarter turn after each slice to keep the tube round; otherwise, it will flatten from all the slicing.
Place each of the slices into a paper cupcake liner and place on baking sheet (with lots of space in between!). Cover loosely and set aside until the rolls double in size.
After rolls have risen, brush with egg wash and sprinkle with pearled sugar. Bake until the rolls are puffed and golden brown, about 9 to 11 minutes. Rotate the trays halfway through for even baking.
What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. ~ T.S. Eliot
Did you miss me? Well, as life changes – so do blogs. Check out my new blog, a different sort of adventure – and I promise it will be recipe packed! http://dharmakitchen.wordpress.com/
Yeah! Andrea from the great food blog HighLowFoodDrink (which seriously makes miss New York City!) has submitted a great story about how she won her man over with food! And now Andrea has won her very own copy of Forking Fantastic!
Free food and free beer – that’s how my husband and I met when he crashed a grad school party at my school. Though this is how we met, I thought a photo of Bud light wouldn’t really be a great recipe submission. So, how did I win his heart? By making congee when he was sick as a dog and couldn’t get out of bed. Congee is a traditional Chinese peasant breakfast and my mom would always make a bowl for me when I was sick. It’s a really easy dish and it did help him feel better. It must have worked because we’re now married and he always requests this dish whenever he’s feeling ill.
Recipe:
9 cups water
3/4 cup long grain rice
additional ingredients: frozen corn, broccoli, eggs, Chinese mushrooms, etc
additional seasonings: salt and pepper
In a large pot, bring the water and rice to a boil. When the rice is boiling, turn the heat down to medium low. Place the lid on the pot, tilting it to allow steam to escape. Simmer on low heat, stirring occasionally, until the rice has the thick, creamy texture of porridge for about 2 hours. Add other ingredients and let them cook. Serve in bowl.
Andrea’s congee may just surpass Congee Village, the best congee joint in Manhattan. Maybe we should be lining up at Andrea’s door at 3am instead?!
Thanks Andrea!
Ancient Greek philosopher Diogenes once masturbated in the Agora; when rebuked for doing so, he replied, “If only it was as easy to soothe my hunger by rubbing my belly.”
Forget Martha Stewart Living and to hell with the recession! Forking Fantastic, by Zora O’Neill and Tamara Reynolds, is the new de rigueur guide to entertaining, especially in these lean times. The two hotties behind New York City’s coolest underground supper club, Sunday Night Dinners, come out with knives swinging, vehemently reminding readers that cooking for friends and family is not about spending your children’s college fund on matching bone china and kitchen gadgets, designing a Philippe Stark worthy table corsage, or decorating your Christmas setting with real snow imported from the Himalayas. It’s about lounging around the table, eating, drinking, solving the world’s problems through hearty (albeit drunken) debate and enjoying good, honest food with friends and family. In fact, bone china be damned! And for that matter, table be damned! Have a picnic on your living room floor, or better yet, do as they advise and take your living room door off of its hinges and make a table. With our food-tv and star chef obsessed culture, Zora and Tamara’s guerilla approach to entertaining is a fresh breath of fried onion and garlic perfumed air. And, it is a much needed reminder that it’s better to sweat over a hot stove rather than over the spots on the tines of a fork; that cheap wine is actually ok to cook with (and to drink!); that being broke, single and living in a tiny, under equipped apartment is no excuse to avoid inviting a gaggle of friends over for dinner, and that cooking ain’t no spectator sport! And, if all else fails, there’s always pizza.
I can’t recall ever experiencing gut-busting laughter while reading a cookbook before, but nearly fell over as Zora described her first dinner party – referring to her guests as “limp legged ladle lickers”, as they sat on the floor drinking from ladles when they’d run out of glassware. Hilarious stories of kitchen maladies and a girth of kitchen wisdom learned over six years of bi-weekly dinner parties that’d take the average home cook decades to learn, are interwoven with hunger-inducing recipes like The Magnificent Lamb Roast (with complete instructions on how to build a lamb grill and spit with a 50-gallon steel drum and cinder blocks); Peter’s Cesar Salad (which I’ve made three times – it’s THAT good); the Croke Monster (a step-by-step guide for making a croquembouche for the complete novice – I’m going to attempt to tackle that one next week), and dozens more recipes that will leave you reaching for the phone to call all your friends and invite them over for dinner, once you’ve stopped laughing and convulsing enough to actually speak. As well, the book offers totally practical advice on stocking your kitchen (and why multi-piece sets of star chef endorsed cookware are the biggest racket going), crafting a menu (if it’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing); how to exploit your at-home child labor force to help prep; and how to handle “The Hour of Self-Loathing” and avoid a complete nervous breakdown before dinner is served (Drink. Heavily). I cannot recommend this book enough. If there is one guide to entertaining that you should have out on your kitchen counter, and use often, it’s Forking Fantastic. This book will age well (like a nice leather handbag) as it collects grease splatters, dog eared pages, and wine glass rings – as I’m certain you’ll be using it THAT MUCH. I know I will.
WIN A COPY OF FORKING FANTASTIC!
And now for the contest! Want to win a copy of Forking Fantastic for yourself? In Chapter One, Zora and Tamara recommend learning how to cook because it’s better, or at least more reliable, than sex. It will increase your chances of getting laid, they opine. And, it will get you through a long dry spell with a lot more self-respect. Got a favorite recipe and story about how cooking helped you get laid, win over your current (or ex – I’m impartial) squeeze (partner, spouse, lover, etc)? Email the name and description of the dish (and a recipe, if you’ve got it) and story of how it landed you your squeeze (pictures if you got ‘em – of the food, not the sex, please! And really, I don’t want graphic details – just a good story) to: cristina at thewaywardchef dot com. Be sure to include your name and address. If I post it here – you’ll receive a copy of Forking Fantastic in the mail! I have three books to give away and winners will be chosen by OCTOBER 25th! So hurry your ass up!
Hey, they don’t call me wayward for nothing!
Note to mom: I don’t think you really need to print this post out for grandma! ;o)
I awoke to the smell of toasted bagels. Plates of locally made lox, capers, thickly sliced heirloom tomatoes, red onion, and cream cheese were spread across the table. Coffee brewed. The forest beckoned. I could hardly sit still while we ate.
Gnome condos.
We parked along the side of the road, another stop without a clearly marked trail head, but David knew the way from all the years he’s been foraging. We struck out up a steep mountainside. Massive redwood trees towered above us. The forest floor was green with clover and ferns. The air smelled earthy and fresh. If ever gnomes existed, this is where they lived.
I followed David and Cathleen closely, looked where they looked, dug where they dug, hoped that maybe they’d missed a mother load of mushrooms and I’d miraculously stumble upon it (no such luck!). And as I followed them, I began to better identify on my own where chanterelles liked to live; shaded nooks, underneath pine and sticks, buried around rotting stumps and fallen trees, between spindly vines of stinging nettles. My eyes scanned every inch of the ground, like a child on a beach searching for the ever elusive blue beach glass. The slightest fleck of peach color poking up from the forest floor required closer inspection. And eventually, it paid off. As I stood on a sloping hill, looking through the trees at the ocean far below, I thought that the spot where I stood seamed like just the place chanterelles would love. I turned around to face uphill, looked down at my feet, and pushed away a large fern frond to reveal three large chanterelles! As I knelt down to begin the fragile task of pulling them from the ground, I saw two more hidden in the underbrush. Another tree stump revealed a massive outcropping, and even one big chanterelle hidden deep inside a hole in the trunk. Before long, my sack was bulging with mushrooms. David and Cathleen had been doing quite well also. We worked our way further down the backside of the mountain towards the ocean, and then back up.
I call this mushroom the Evil Eye!
Isn't this the one the cheshire cat sat on?
Hiding under some ferns.
Thank heaven for little grills!
Together we’d found over four pounds, not bad for just a few hours work! We came upon some other amazing mushrooms as well; red furry mushrooms, jeweled with ruby-colored droplets around the outside, ochre colored mushrooms, and deep auburn mushrooms with yellow spots. To quote Humphrey Bogart, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship…
We returned to the cabin with our bounty. David began heating the grill for more of his famous grilled oysters with herb-butter, and also bison rib-eye steaks. Cathleen, with the patience of a saint, delicately wiped each mushroom clean. We had all decided that the bruschetta we’d made with the lobster mushrooms the night before was the best way to enjoy the ‘shrooms. So, I sliced the chanterelles and sautéed them in a hot pan with butter, olive oil, Maldon sea salt, sliced garlic, lemon-thyme, and just a few drops of lemon at the end – and then piled the mushrooms onto thick slices of fried sourdough bread. Beneath a starlit sky and towering redwoods, we warmed our feet by the fire of the barbeque. Hands reached, plates passed, oysters slurped, wine drunk. It was a meal of Apician proportion.
I can say with certainty that I am completely hooked on mushroom foraging. It’s like an Easter egg hunt, or Christmas, only without the sugar high. It’s just a shame that Cathleen and David only do this once a year, especially when hedgehog mushrooms should be coming up in just a few weeks (hint! hint!). Who wants to be my guinea pig? All mushrooms are edible – once!
Lobster Mushrooms Sautéed with Lemon-thyme and Crispy Garlic
Served on Butter Fried Sourdough
Farro with Chanterelles, Hazelnuts and Parmesan Cheese
Barbequed Kumomoto Oysters with Opal Basil Butter
Lemon Cucumber and Heirloom Tomato Salad
Fresh Figs Stuffed with Truffle Tremor Goat Cheese
I’m not sure how long it has been that I have been dreaming of going hunting for edible mushrooms. A decade maybe? I’ve read books and studied. I even own my very own copy of the essential book, Mushrooms Demystified (by David Arora), but until now, have never identified anything other than the standard LBM (Little Brown Mushroom), a rotting lobster mushroom, a few sulfur shelves, and one, lone morel. I’m too timid and paranoid to go it alone – to rely on a book and my own life-confirming heartbeat to determine if a mushroom is edible. But I love mushrooms and I get so excited whenever I can find them at the farmer’s market or gourmet store; pine mushrooms, miatakes (“chicken of the woods”), blue foots, hedgehogs, porcini makes me so happy. Even the common shiitake, portobello and button mushrooms have a warm place in my heart. Sautéed with a little butter and olive oil, garlic, a pinch of salt, some fresh herbs like savory or lemon-thyme, and squeeze of lemon or splash of brandy, and you have something warm, unctuous and satisfying. I even save my mushroom trimmings in the freezer, and when I have a big bag full, I make mushroom stock. It’s heartier and more flavorful than vegetable stock and perfect for gravies and soups. Mushrooms provide maximum flavor with such minimal effort. So, when my new BFFF’s (best foodie friends forever), Cathleen and David, invited me to join them on their annual chanterelle hunt in Humboldt, I jumped at the chance. And now, finally, after years of waiting, hoping, praying – I finally learned how to hunt the little bastards down myself.
The evil Doctor Jagermeister and Senior Patron nearly thwarted our plans of an early departure to the coast. Fortunately, I arrived armed and loaded with pastries and caffeine to rouse my two compatriots from their alcohol induced slumber. With pedal-to-the-metal, we made it to the Arcata Farmer’s Market just in the nick of time to rescue 17 dozen oysters from certain death at the jaws of some stranger with a far less discerning palate and not nearly as appreciative of good food as the three of us. The Wayward Chef saves the day (yet again). The farmer’s market brimmed with baskets of brightly colored heirloom tomatoes, rainbow chard, peppers and winter squash. Live music bellowed over the square as people chatted, and ate, and walked. After collecting our goods from the market, we headed off to Trinidad to check into our cabin and begin our hunt.
After our delayed departure, farmer’s market visit, and a long, relaxing lunch of wonderful cheeses, fresh figs, heirloom tomatoes, and sourdough bread, we outfitted ourselves with pocket knives, bags, and cameras and set off to begin the first of the weekend’s hunt. Pulling into a shaded spot off of the highway, David parked and led us up a path. Actually, “path” is a slight exaggeration. A machete would’ve been helpful to work our way through the brambles and brush. We came to a small clearing; a large, rotting tree stump loomed in front of us. “Chanterelles love rotting tree stumps, this area has been really good to us before”, David told me. I followed his and Cathleen’s lead, pushing aside ferns and sticks, pawing through the soft blanket of pine needles. “David, there are fresh cuts here”, Cathleen pointed out. The evidence of cut chanterelles littered the area; someone had been there earlier in the day and cleaned it out. “Found one!”, Cathleen shouted as she pushed away leaves and dirt. I hopped over to her spot, looking over her shoulder as she pulled out her pocket knife and gently pried it from the soft earth. I was awestruck. The chanterelle had a thick, meaty top and stem. Variegated veins ran along the underside of the cap and its flesh was a pale peachy-orange. David had found a few more and pointed them out for me to pick. “If you find one, look closely because where there is one, there’s bound to be more”, he said. But after those two, there weren’t anymore to be found and we decided to head to another spot. We worked our way back down the mountain and jumped into the car. I was excited but I wasn’t sure whether to taper my enthusiasm just incase all the chanterelles in Humboldt County had been picked already.
A short drive down the road, we pulled over to another spot. There were six parked cars and I was certain that meant that some lucky dog had gotten to all the chanterelles before us. But, per usual, the universe was out to prove my sourpuss attitude wrong. Within ten feet of the car David and Cathleen scored, big time. A ledge leading to a trail proved to be just the right combination of moisture and redwood compost to make for fertile ground. Chanterelles peaked out from underneath the ledge and just as David had said, where there was one, there were many. He would point out one and I’d set to digging it out. I’d look up from my spot and my eye would catch another, and another, and another. This is what I had been waiting for! All three of us worked our way down the wall of dirt plucking chanterelle after chanterelle. We dispersed across the surrounding hiking area to scour for more. It seemed like every two minutes either David or Cathleen would holler that they’d found one. But to my untrained eye, finding chanterelles on my own was still elusive, so I followed closely behind and picked where they pointed. Twenty minutes into our search and we had unearthed over a pound of mushrooms. “That should be enough for dinner” David said. I didn’t want to stop looking. I tried to exercise my psychic powers, to see if I my ‘gut instincts’ would lead me to them (no luck). I dreamed of stumbling upon a big patch of peach-colored heaven and filling my bag.
Arcata Farmer’s Market
Flowers for our dinner table!
Hunted and foraged.
Remember the words of Julia Child – don’t crowd the pan!
Hiding under the brush.
A little bite of heaven!
There’d be more hunting tomorrow, I reminded myself. I was determined to find some mushrooms on my own! But now it was time to head back to the cabin and eat…
There are a lot of adjustments and sacrifices a food “enthusiast” makes when bidding adieu to life in the big city. When I said goodbye to New York to jump on a yacht sailing down to the Caribbean, I also said goodbye to my favorite butcher, fishmonger, ethnic markets, gourmet stores and most difficult of all, the cheese counter at Murray’s Cheese in Greenwich Village. Granted, I traded those places for white sandy beaches, and bartering with Rasta’s over the price of breadfruit and mangoes, so who am I to complain? But, even in a tropical paradise, I pined for a good butcher and a respectable cheese counter.
So here I am, once again, “officially” bidding farewell to one world and jumping into another. I’ve turned down several offers aboard yachts, instead opting for life on land in a quiet, little community in Southern Oregon’s Rogue Valley. As I’ve made my home here over the past few months, there are adjustments and sacrifices too. No white sand beaches, I have yet to find a good butcher, and I have lamented for months the lack of a “real” cheese counter here as I’ve pawed through the pre-cut, shrink-wrapped wedges of pepper jack, brie and blue in the cheese section of my local food co-op. I’ve missed the experience of smelling, sampling and ordering – and that warm, fuzzy feeling knowing that each wedge was being cut fresh from a big wheel, just for me. But today, my luck changed. As I lamented the sorry state of those poor, cryogenically sealed delicacies a message comes across my iPhone, “Rogue Creamery has Burrata and fresh buffalo mozzerella!” Fresh Burrata? Reason enough play hooky from work and drive out to the creamery in Central Point. I’ve been meaning to check that place out…
917 to 541, bringing cheese and smiles all the way from New York
A fine selection of artisan American cheeses
An excellent pairing with some Rogue Creamery Blue
Molinary Salami from San Francisco, a little bite of heaven
I’ll take one wheel, please
Sweet ‘n’ Nutty, like you’re favorite blogger!
I thought I was taking another step in my new world, in my new life, as I pushed through the doors of Rogue Creamery, but instead it was just like a taste of my old life again. There, behind a gorgeous cheese counter, with his cheese shirt and baseball cap, glasses pushed up on his nose, and a big, cheese-loving smile spread across his face, was my old friend, Tom Van Voorhees, the leading, ACS award winning cheesemonger in the US (and formerly of the aforementioned Murray’s Cheese, Fairway, and Tuller Premium Food). A basket of heirloom tomatoes and a sampling of Burrata, that amazing cream-filled Italian mozzerella, sat on a small tasting table in front of the cheese case. I’ve had Burrata before, but couldn’t help but sample it again. It was so fresh tasting, I asked Tom if it had just been flown in from Italy. “Nope, it’s handmade in Southern California by Gioia Cheese Company” What? No way, Burrata this good cannot be from the United States. I didn’t believe him. “It is”, Tom said, “and half its shelf life isn’t gone by the time we receive it here, like it would be with Burrata from Italy”. Oh my god, my prayers have been answered. Who needs New York City when you have Rogue Creamery?
I perused the cheese selection and am happy to report that not only does Rogue Creamery carry it’s full line of award winning blue cheeses, curds, and fresh-churned butter, but they also have probably one of the finest selections of American made, artisan cheeses I’ve ever seen (and tasted) – this side of the Mississippi. Edelweiss Emanthaler raw milk aged swiss and Pleasant Ridge Reserve, both from Wisconsin. Pholia Farms raw farmstead goat cheese from Rogue River; Cyrpus Grove; Tumalo Farms from Bend; “Up In Smoke” chevre from River’s Edge on the Oregon Coast. And, a few essential European cheeses, for good measure. “Yeah, we pretty much don’t carry any boring, mass-produced cheese” Tom told me, in his usual matter-of-fact manner, as he handed me a golden, crystal-flecked shard of a 4-year aged Gouda.
So, I traded my cheesemonger in New York for the Rasta’s in the Caribbean. But now, my little piece of New York is here. Perhaps my sacrifice is trading back the Rasta’s in the Caribbean for my cheesemonger. That’s a faire enough trade-off to me. And heaven knows – if I really need a dose of trustafarians Rastafarians, all I have to do is go for a walk through downtown Ashland. In the meantime, I’ll be sampling my way through Rogue Creamery and weighing whether the sacrifice is worth it…
Rogue Creamery
311 North Front Street
Central Point, Or 97502
Cheese shop hours:
M-F 9am to 5pm
Sat 9am to 6pm
Sun 11am to 5pm
When people think of clay pot cooking, most often, they think of grandma’s ceramic casserole or crock-pot. But for those in the know, clay pot cooking invokes impassioned responses and cult-like zeal. “I found my first clay pot, a French triperie, [for cooking tripe], at a shop in New York City years ago. I didn’t even know what tripe was!” exclaimed iconic food writer, Paula Wolfert. The Sonoma, California resident and self-proclaimed clay pot “junkie” has been collecting clay pots from her travels around the world for over fifty years. “It’s a personal sickness” she confessed, “I have hundreds of clay pots”.
The history of clay pot cooking runs as rich and deep as civilization itself, from ancient times to present day and from Indonesia to Egypt. Even the United States has its own history with earthenware. ‘Boston’ Baked Beans, originally a native American dish, were cooked in earthen bean pots. Traditional micacious pots of the American Southwest Indians have a cult status all their own. But clay pot cooking is getting a renewed look as of late as chefs such as Deborah Madison and Richard Olney extol the virtues of these earthen wonders in their cookbooks. Steve Sando, founder of Rancho Gordo Heirloom Beans in Napa, readily admits to his obsession. He’ll use any one of his eighty-plus bean pots on a daily basis. Tom Wirt, of Clay Coyote, recently launched a line of clay cookware and believes that as people make more conscious food choices, they’ll want cookware with a conscience too. On a recent walk through Sonoma, Paula Wolfert quipped “of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world…” upon stumbling upon the new store, Bram. Bram, the Egyptian word for a clay pot, is dedicated entirely to clay pot cookware from around the world. The timing and location couldn’t be more auspicious as Wolfert’s latest cookbook, Mediterranean Clay Pot Cooking, (Wiley, 2009), is due out this fall.
What fuels such an emphatic following? Enthusiasts claim that clay pots lend a taste of the earth to whatever is cooked in them; a “fingerprint” of the clay, Wolfert calls it. La Chamba, the jet-black earthenware from Columbia, is smoked in rice husks, imparting a smoky flavor into the pot’s contents. Mineral qualities are said to infuse into the dishes cooked in the clay pots from Egypt, Morocco and Mexico. Micacious clay pots are said to lend a “sweet” or “balanced” quality to whatever is cooked in them. As well, clay distributes heat evenly and then holds its temperature making it ideal for cooking low, and slow, and developing flavor; whereas, cast-iron or steel pots continue to heat up unless they’re moved away from their heat source. Enthusiasts often describe feeling an almost ‘primal connection’ to their food when they cook with clay. Although Wolfert is quick to dismiss the notion that clay pot cooking is anything more than a niche market for an impassioned group of cooks, some might beg to differ…
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